Stone-like Strangers
by connorfemway
Summary: In the city for the first time, opportunity awaits around every corner. But sometimes that opportunity isn't always for good. Fem!Connor


"Why do you want to disguise yourself as a man?"

AND

"What was the first impression Haytham gave you (Boston Massacre, 1770)?"

A reply to TWO asks on the ask blog **connorfemway** on tumblr.

Don't even ask me how I did that. It just kind of worked out that way.

And did you know - I love 'cameos', so to speak.

Enjoy.

* * *

"Perhaps a firsthand experience will make you change your mind."

These are the words that pass Achilles' lips as he hits the carriage door with his rickety cane. Despite the way he carries himself there is hidden concern in his gaze. But at her age, Ratonhnhaké:ton cannot read past outside appearances. Achilles was the only person she'd come to know that was not a part of her village, and deciphering him took skill far superior to what she had at this time.

The ride lasts hours. The native girl spends the time in meaningless ways - twiddling her fingers, sliding open the tiny window to look out past Achilles, asking questions of the place they were to be going, stopping once the old man grows irritated with the same discussion. The one that had come up so frequently that Ratonhnhaké:ton was surprised she had not been sent away from Achilles' home for good. If it was so important, and she would not accept it, was that not grounds for exile in his opinion?

Still Achilles' persisted. His excuse to fetch materials for the homestead hardly excused the real reason for this trip.

The native girl's eyelids grow heavy with boredom. She wraps her arms tight about her knees, fingers occupying themselves with the long braid that folds over her left shoulder. It is long enough now that it reaches down to her lower back.

The moment she rests her head upon her knees seems to be the moment the carriage stops, although it is not. Sleep has passed the time and before she knows it Achilles is beating on the door with his cane.

"Come out and get a look," he speaks above the chatter that finds her ears. Eyelids flutter, and the girl stumbles to her feet. She adjusts the tomahawk on her belt before tossing open the carriage door. The light outside scorches her eyes and she must step down out of the carriage carefully to avoid falling.

Boston is an enchanting place to the Assassin-in-training who has never seen the likeness of a city before. As the girl examines the area with a gaping mouth the old man she accompanies walks ahead, intent on completing their task as quickly and as efficiently as possible.

"Remember what we've discussed. If asked, Connor is your name, even if you don't look the part," his stern tone matches the critical look he gives the native girl. A frown passes Ratonhnhaké:ton's lips at once, her gaze landing on him. She had not sought to displease her mentor, but there were some things she could not yet give up. "Return to me once you've completed your task. Keep your eyes open."

"As you wish," she nods her head once. Awkwardly, Ratonhnhaké:ton steps away from her mentor. Within moments he has disappeared within the crowds and the student finds herself alone.

The sounds of Boston ring in fresh ears. The women in dresses breeze by, small feet carrying them with grace. These women have Ratonhnhaké:ton stopping and staring despite Achilles' former warning not to. The men with thick beards and huge shoulders pass by, their eyes following her just as hers follow them. But their expressions are unreadable, seemingly on purpose. They carry the stink of sweat and long hours of work, of large families and no money for which to provide for them. These men shove past Ratonhnhaké:ton and do not apologize. The children appear from around corners, the depths of alleys, from stray bushes or from beneath boxes. They hold out their tiny hands and speak gibberish to the native girl, pawing at her, making her uncomfortable with their desperate yet naively happy touch.

Down and up, down and up, eyes move from paper to sign. It is the place, Ratonhnhaké:ton knows, but it is as if she does not want to believe it. Stance is adjusted, shoes scrape at the stone. Behind her a troupe of redcoats pass by.

Ratonhnhaké:ton tries to work up the nerve to enter but it is hard to bring herself to do so. Many of the sights seen today had overwhelmed her enough, and it had only been close to half an hour past. Was this not supposed to be easy? It was like she had told Achilles not long ago - if you have money and need something fixed, go and buy materials. It was that simple.

But the semi-shy native hadn't taken into account how nervous she might become, how sweaty her palms might become, faced with the unknown yet again.

"My dear, are you lost?"

A pudgy, balding man with a lady on his arm has come close to the native girl from somewhere behind her, surprising her from her thoughts. He stops not far from her. The lady is frivolously dressed, waving a fan in front of her face. Her eyes resemble that of a fox.

Luckily the man appears to be kind. With a round face and small smile, eyeglasses perched on the tip of his nose, the atmosphere about him is friendly and even charming. He is not much taller than Ratonhnhaké:ton, but he stands up straighter, protruding belly coming off as strange to the native girl - perhaps it had been wrong of her to poke fun at Kanen'tó:kon all of those times for his weight. Seeing as there were much fatter people in the world...

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton finally manages to say, noticing the expectant yet patient look of the man. The lady next to him leans to the side to try to sneak a peek at the paper the native holds.

"You look quite forlorn for knowing where you are, dear," she comments, voice wispy and soft and unlike anything Ratonhnhaké:ton had ever heard before. The women of the colonies were so delicate at first glance. Their arms were so small and their bellies even smaller.

"I might agree," the man chuckles, holding out his unoccupied hand. With caution, Ratonhnhaké:ton hands over the paper. The gaze she wears is untrusting. The pudgy man doesn't seem to notice this, tipping his head back to peer through the eyeglasses he wears. "Yes, you are at the right place, so says this. But why are you standing out here when your business is inside?"

"She looks to be shy," the woman bounces her weight from one leg to the other, chest bouncing slightly in the tight dress she wears. Her arms hang around his like wispy pine needles might look on a thick branch.

"Now now," the man chuckles again, his belly bouncing. He hands the paper back to the girl, "There is certainly nothing to be afraid of! I happen to know the shopkeeper quite well. He is a good and fair man. I'm sure, with a pretty face such as yours, that you might obtain the goods you need for much cheaper than most, in fact."

Ratonhnhaké:ton can't even begin to wrap her head around what the man means by obtaining a discount through facial appeal. It is better not to question it further, she supposes.

"Many thanks," she says to the pair, trying not to flinch when the woman extends a long, skinny hand to stroke at the long braid that falls over the native girl's shoulder.

"It is no problem my dear. If you are ever in need of help I would be glad to be of service. A lady in need should not have to inquire anywhere else. Boston is not exactly the friendliest of places," the man tips his head to the young girl, "Inquire for Benjamin Franklin if you ever come upon any other troubles. The people of Boston know me well."

The girl bows her head, steps to the side as man and lady pass. She observes their posture as they go. The woman was like a bean stalk, yet when she walked her hips seemed to sway in awkward yet attractive ways. Rubbing her own hip with confusion, the native girl makes her way up the few steps to the shop's door and opens it, swallowing any fears she may have about doing so.

When she comes away from the shop not minutes later, money pouch a bit lighter than before she entered, Ratonhnhaké:ton only finds herself further confused.

Being talked to like a simpleton was something she had not expected. The man behind the counter, as nice as he was, had acted as though she was a tiny child. He bothered himself in explaining the uses of each product with some kind of eager satisfaction. As though she didn't know what good timber was used for? Why would she be in a shop to buy it if she did not know what it was used for? She can't help but question, over and over, is this what people of the colonies did? Did they go into shops and buy mysterious things simply for the sake of saying they owned it? Or was the man simply assuming her to be blockheaded?

And why had that Benjamin Franklin been right about the discount she received?

Some of the things Achilles had discussed were starting to fit into place within reality, and it was making Ratonhnhaké:ton sick to think about it.

Walking the streets again to find Achilles, Ratonhnhaké:ton takes away some joy in the atmosphere of the city and the spirit of its people, but troubles begin to arise the further she walks. The Assassin-in-training purposefully diverts her walking path when she witnesses a man yelling at a woman, grasping her wrist in his much bigger hand, preventing her from escaping. The two begin to throw punches and the redcoats in the vicinity simply look on with interest. The norms of this city are hard to decipher, and the unequal treatment of women and men was shining through. It was as though men's lives were simply work and drink, while women's were family and subservience.

The longer she walks the more desolate the streets become. Instead of peaceful shopkeepers advertising and criers preaching, there are stone-faced redcoats who say odd words when she passes. There are fights that have begun, civilians versus 'lobsterbacks', in which civilians throw the first punch and the redcoats throw the last. Something is wrong, Ratonhnhaké:ton knows.

Achilles stands at the edge of a wild crowd in the center of the city. She pushes through the hordes of people, shivering at the foreign touches, trying to ignore the mean words that are thrown her way for getting in the way.

"Have you completed the task?" Achilles asks with a sense of urgency about him. He starts to hobble around the outskirts of the crowd and Ratonhnhaké:ton must try to follow close by his side.

"Yes. What is happening?" she inquires, the sentence cutting off with a yelp from the girl as a stray weeding hoe is flung from within the crowd. It passes directly over her ducked head, coming to a screeching halt against a tree. Achilles snarls his displeasure, stopping a moment to make sure his student is okay before pressing on.

"That is what we're going to find out."

More than once Ratonhnhaké:ton has to wave off people who get too close to her as she follows Achilles through the turmoil. There is anger that pulses throughout the crowd. It spreads like wildfire. Protesters shout and raise makeshift weapons to the air. Ratonhnhaké:ton feels the tense atmosphere of the crowd on the verge of explosion. Upon the steps of the courthouse redcoats stand with hands raised, trying to calm the crowd of unreasonable city-goers.

"Why is this-?" she begins to ask, but a color different from the others catches her eyes.

"It is just as I suspected," Achilles is hard to hear above the heave-ho of the rowdy crowds around them.

The native can barely get a proper look at the man of interest before she is knocked in the head by someone's elbow - a bulky man who turns his foul mouth on her as she presses a palm over her forehead, stepping back to avoid confrontation. Achilles waves the man off, clearly aggravated. Ratonhnhaké:ton keeps a hand on her tomahawk now, all too wary of the crowd. A moment later her eyes are pointed back towards the front.

"Is that my father?" she asks as the crowd seems to expand. She can barely get him in her view - the only thing she can see clearly is the man who leaves the Grandmaster Templar's side.

"Yes, and he's up to something," Achilles growls, ruthlessly beating any people who dare get too close to him now with his cane. Older and frailer, getting knocked down in this crowd would lead to being trampled, from which he would not survive. He turns his stern gaze on Ratonhnhaké:ton, "Tail his accomplice, thwart any plan he might have to set off this powder keg of a crowd."

"But Achilles, my father, he is right there-"

"Do as I say! We don't have much time! You cannot stand up to your father as you are now."

A sigh of exasperation falls past parted lips. Doing as instructed, Ratonhnhaké:ton moves farther away from the crowd and into a small group of women on the outskirts. She catches a glimpse of the runner just as he rounds a corner down the street. Catching up behind the man is easy. The man walks quickly, with intent, but he does not run so as to not draw too much attention. As she progresses after him, Ratonhnhaké:ton goes over each point Achilles had made to her before this. About stealth. About utilizing the crowds. About remaining undetected at all costs or else face death. When the accomplice ascends a ladder up onto the rooftops Ratonhnhaké:ton has no choice but to follow, climbing it only after he has disappeared over the edge.

To her misfortune the accomplice is loading his musket. The young Assassin-in-training crouches behind a chimney stack, peeking around to get a look at where the man now aims. Fingers play with the tomahawk that hangs at the waist, stomach churning when she notices he aims nowhere in particular with he raises his musket.

It would surely set the crowd ablaze, the sound of gunfire. The only people with guns were the redcoats. Threatened, they might open fire on innocent civilians. Never could she allow such a thing to happen.

Seeing no other choice, the girl appears from behind the chimney stack. The tomahawk is twirled in her skilled fingers once before she grabs a hold of the back of the man's collar, and in one quick motion drags the tomahawk across the man's neck. The gun does not fire.

The man who chokes on his own blood falls to the roof. Ratonhnhaké:ton grabs the front of his shirt, narrowing her eyes at him. He flashes a cruel smile.

"Your plot has ended," she says softly, other hand gripping the tomahawk that is now stained with blood.

"Not quite, deary," the man begins to laugh, revealing bloodstained teeth. He turns his head to the side and her eyes follow.

Upon a rooftop across the way stands the blur of a man. He raises his arm into the air, and at the end of it he holds a pistol. Ratonhnhaké:ton's heart leaps up into her throat, but she is too late.

At the sound of the shot, the crowd erupts. The redcoats raise their guns. Ratonhnhaké:ton can hardly make herself watch the scene that unfolds, dropping the man in her grasp and stepping backwards on the rooftop. Gunfire litters the air, and civilians begin to fall. Those who have not been shot storm the courthouse. It is a full-blown battle now.

"No…" Ratonhnhaké:ton mutters in distress, finally making herself look at the scene. All is chaos, so her eyes fall on the only man who stands still. There is shock that fills her air to see that his gaze is firmly planted on her.

For a moment, their eyes meet, and finally Ratonhnhaké:ton can get a good look at Haytham Kenway.

His demeanor is the epitome of calm and collected. The Grandmaster Templar commands authority with only his stance, with only the look in his eyes. Clean, well dressed, astute. There is something there in his figure, tall and large, that reminds her of a time long ago, when the only thing she'd known of her father were his handwritten words. Seeing him now, were it not for this chaos, she might think him a truly glorious man.

It is surprising to see that in these very few moments he seems to be as interested in her as she is in him. Reality becomes reality yet again, however, when he raises a finger to point directly at her, his other hand moving to tap a redcoat on the shoulder. Ratonhnhaké:ton's heart leaps up into her throat for the second time. Before she can gauge the situation her legs are already working her in the opposite direction from the raging crowd. The opposite direction of the bloodshed and chaos that would fill her nightmares for several days.

Within the security of an abandoned shed, Ratonhnhaké:ton takes deep breaths. In one hand she grasps a hold of her braid, and in the other she holds her bloodied tomahawk.

Achilles had been right.

Haytham Kenway was a man who commanded power, respect. He commanded his nerves, commanded others. Despite these things, these things that made him someone that, in another time, Ratonhnhaké:ton might have allowed herself to look up to, he was still the Haytham Kenway within the journal. She could see it in him. It was there, hiding, right? It had to be the same man.

If he could place his emotions aside for his cause, couldn't she?

If she was to command the respect he commanded, she couldn't be herself. She couldn't let emotion get in the way. She would have to rid herself of this braid her mother had adored. She would have to listen to Achilles.

All the times he had tried to convince her that this was what she needed to do - to blend in - he had been right. In a society where women were but playthings to carry on the arm or housemaids to beat around like dogs; in a society where natives were shunned as the other by the many, even when your skin was paler; she would have to be more than that, and hold back who she really was.

As she drags the blade through her hair, Connor convinces herself that this was what Haytham, too, had done at some point. Convinces herself that the man she had read of was in there somewhere, within the shell of pride and authority. In the end she was her father's daughter, and the change was inevitable. It had only taken a trip away from the forest to realize it.

Haytham was strong, and his daughter only ever wanted to replicate that strength in order to knock him off of his pillar.

As she steps out of the shadows, Connor can't help but paw at her neck and freshly bound chest, the wraps for which she had shoved in her pocket a few mornings ago upon Achilles' command. Her hair now extends to the middle of her jaw and no farther. To keep from acting abnormal, as there were still guards in pursuit of her, she busies her hands by braiding a small piece of hair on the right side of her head.

A stranger is produced from the shadows just as Connor is about to give up her search for Achilles. Night has fallen, and street lamps cast deep shadows across the stone. The stranger approaches without fear, and Connor eyes him with suspicion.

"I almost did not recognize you. I thought I had seen you with longer hair," the man comments lightly, holding the posture of a politician, similar to Haytham, "I must have been mistaken. You are Achilles' boy, right? Connor?"

The native girl examines the man as he speak. A throat is cleared in the midst of his words, and when she speaks a firm "Yes," her voice is quieter and flatter, forced lower than is comfortable. Now, it must be made comfortable. It is convincing only because she is young, and Sam Adams falls for it without hesitation.

It is a commitment Connor promises to uphold. Because if Haytham could do it and be the way he was now, she was sure she could too.


End file.
